"The tour leaves at one from the dock. Wear shoes you can slip off." Minnie and I looked at the Mexican hotel clerk surprised. Visiting Mazatlan, Mexico in March we walked the city shops, dined by the sea, and I para-sailed. Today we planned to explore outside the city limits. A dozen of us gathered at the dock for the tour. Wearing black pants legs rolled up to the knee, our guide waded around the small fishing boats to steady them for us to board. Life jackets? None. Mini-motors sputtered. We headed up stream at a Mexican pace - slow.
Moving through the narrow tree-lined river we looked about for creatures in the water and didn't see any. Our guide headed for a cleared bank, cut the engine, jumped out, held the boat, and motioned for us to get out. Minnie said, "Ah, this is where our shoes come off and our pants legs roll up."
Children came from a stick hut to greet us. "The vertical sticks are spaced so pigs and chickens can come and go," our guide explained. The young toothless mother came forward with an infant in her arms.
We were astounded at how they lived. We expect much more for ourselves. Was it a setup for money? Our guide gave them a little from our group, but the kids just wanted candy. Kids are kids. Their lifestyle hadn't changed in hundreds of years, or more. What is the mortality rate? Mouths agape, we stared at the footed sleeper with "Minnesota" embroidered on it, a gift from a church group in Minnesota. Extremes.
Silence ruled our return trip to the city. We didn't know what to make of their situation, or if we were obligated to do something - the American dilemma. Perhaps the purpose was to remind us we have so much to appreciate and not take for granted.
Copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
Showing posts with label customs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label customs. Show all posts
Friday, February 03, 2006
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
Marienplatz
The first Friday after the first Sunday of Advent the Lord Mayor of Munich, Germany, opens the outdoor Christmas Market at 5 pm in the Marienplatz, which means town center. In the cold darkness the near 100 foot tree is lit with 2,500 candles. Hot spiced wine, Gluehwein, scents the air. The Glockenspeil chimes and the magic of Christmas takes off in 140 stalls of candles, ceramics, ornaments, toys, clothes, foods, and much more, a tradition since the 14th century.
We arrived the first week of December. Right after a hearty German breakfast buffet, we set off for the market dressed in warm clothes and comfortable shoes- there were no chairs or benches. Clutching our large mesh shopping bags we joined the throng of shoppers. After we had been walking for a while, like so many of the other shoppers, we each bought a paper cone full of carmelized nuts to nibble on while we shopped and bags full of nuts to take home. We felt like we belonged.
When we got cold, we stopped at a hot milk stall flavored with honey, almond or other spices. All day we walked. In one stall we saw dried fruit figures. These were little people made of dried prunes, raisins, apricots, apples, and any other fruit that would dry - a whole fruit salad rolled into one so cute we didn't want to eat it.
For Christmas postmarks, there's a stall for mail from Christkindl, Austria. The Crib Market is the largest display in Germany of everything needed for a Nativity scene. One woman said, "I've come every year for ten to buy a piece for my collection." We watched shoppers reverently handle the pieces that felt reverently carved. If seeing is believing, and believing is seeing, holding the Holy Family anchors the meaning of Christmas.
We sampled Christmas cookies and gingerbread. The hot milk had worn off and we were cold again. It was dark. All day we could smell the Gluehwein, which translates as 'glow wine'. It made us warm and silly. I could just see the dancing cinnamon stick wrapped with a skirt of clove-studded orange peel, chunk ginger at the feet and star anise on the crown. My sister said I'd had enough.
The market closes on Christmas Eve. Angel hair will drift through the city for days hinting at the magic put away until next year.
We will light the pine incense in my Santa smoker, sip hot chocolate and dream of a return trip.
Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
We arrived the first week of December. Right after a hearty German breakfast buffet, we set off for the market dressed in warm clothes and comfortable shoes- there were no chairs or benches. Clutching our large mesh shopping bags we joined the throng of shoppers. After we had been walking for a while, like so many of the other shoppers, we each bought a paper cone full of carmelized nuts to nibble on while we shopped and bags full of nuts to take home. We felt like we belonged.
When we got cold, we stopped at a hot milk stall flavored with honey, almond or other spices. All day we walked. In one stall we saw dried fruit figures. These were little people made of dried prunes, raisins, apricots, apples, and any other fruit that would dry - a whole fruit salad rolled into one so cute we didn't want to eat it.
For Christmas postmarks, there's a stall for mail from Christkindl, Austria. The Crib Market is the largest display in Germany of everything needed for a Nativity scene. One woman said, "I've come every year for ten to buy a piece for my collection." We watched shoppers reverently handle the pieces that felt reverently carved. If seeing is believing, and believing is seeing, holding the Holy Family anchors the meaning of Christmas.
We sampled Christmas cookies and gingerbread. The hot milk had worn off and we were cold again. It was dark. All day we could smell the Gluehwein, which translates as 'glow wine'. It made us warm and silly. I could just see the dancing cinnamon stick wrapped with a skirt of clove-studded orange peel, chunk ginger at the feet and star anise on the crown. My sister said I'd had enough.
The market closes on Christmas Eve. Angel hair will drift through the city for days hinting at the magic put away until next year.
We will light the pine incense in my Santa smoker, sip hot chocolate and dream of a return trip.
Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
Thursday, September 29, 2005
90,000 baby chicks and a 100 head of dairy cows
"You have how many baby chicks?" Minnie asked the farmer at Hereford, England.
"90,000. That's 30,000 in each of these three buildings."
You know we had to look, and he was proud to show us.
Feed and water were suspended from the ceiling so nothing could be knocked over. I asked what the bedding was. He reached into the six-inch depth, and grabbed a fistful of shredded English paper money with silver threads glistening here and there. "When the chicks are removed after 39 or a few more days, these buildings will be cleaned out and scrubbed; you could eat off the floor."
When we were kids our family raised 100 fryers each spring under a heat lamp in a brooder house. We'd rush home from school to play with them. To hold a baby chick to our ear and hear it cheep was worth the all day wait. If it didn't cheep (talk), we'd report it to our parents as sick, and they'd come investigate. Once the chicks grew feathers they weren't as much fun, or as easy to catch, and their beaks were weapons.
Dad checked on our new brood every couple of hours day and night for the first few weeks. Fire was a concern. The heat-lamp could catch the straw and newspaper bedding on fire. Our new friend had a couple of farm hands, but the ultimate responsibility for the care of the chicks was his. I'd call it "FIC": Fowl Intensive Care. And he had a dairy operation with 100 Holstein cows. I think the B&B was for some outside company. They were too busy to get away.
"When the chicks arrived two girls sorted them by the shape of their wing feathers, tossing pullets one direction and roosters the other. Pullets are kept a different number of days from roosters," so said our new friend.
Because we were interested, he told us of a peculiar situation he'd had with one new batch of chicks. They wouldn't drink water. The "why not" was a mystery. Three-day-olds aren't much more than a cotton-ball with feet and a beak, they need hydration.
Puzzled, he held one chick at the water-er tapping it's head so it's beak touched the water. The other 89,999 waited for the verdict. Our friend couldn't give up, too much was at stake. After several minutes, whatever blocked the idea dissolved, and the chick took a drink. Instantly, the message transmitted to the rest, and they all took a drink, thank goodness.
Gracious hosts, they fed us well in the mornings - the King's Breakfast: meat, eggs, bread fried and toast, grilled tomatoes, cheeses, and tea; whatever we wanted. Then we took day trips, but that's another story. In the evening they invited us for brandy and a visit. Their home was new-built to look like the old black and whites. Timbers for their blacks were more than 250 years old and came from an old ship. That's recycling.
We never thought of any consequences for visiting the chicken operation, but back in the States, Customs intended confiscating our shoes until we convinced them we wouldn't be on a farm at home.
Minnie says I can't say we stayed at "the chicken ranch," but what would you call a farm with 90,000 chickens?
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
"90,000. That's 30,000 in each of these three buildings."
You know we had to look, and he was proud to show us.
Feed and water were suspended from the ceiling so nothing could be knocked over. I asked what the bedding was. He reached into the six-inch depth, and grabbed a fistful of shredded English paper money with silver threads glistening here and there. "When the chicks are removed after 39 or a few more days, these buildings will be cleaned out and scrubbed; you could eat off the floor."
When we were kids our family raised 100 fryers each spring under a heat lamp in a brooder house. We'd rush home from school to play with them. To hold a baby chick to our ear and hear it cheep was worth the all day wait. If it didn't cheep (talk), we'd report it to our parents as sick, and they'd come investigate. Once the chicks grew feathers they weren't as much fun, or as easy to catch, and their beaks were weapons.
Dad checked on our new brood every couple of hours day and night for the first few weeks. Fire was a concern. The heat-lamp could catch the straw and newspaper bedding on fire. Our new friend had a couple of farm hands, but the ultimate responsibility for the care of the chicks was his. I'd call it "FIC": Fowl Intensive Care. And he had a dairy operation with 100 Holstein cows. I think the B&B was for some outside company. They were too busy to get away.
"When the chicks arrived two girls sorted them by the shape of their wing feathers, tossing pullets one direction and roosters the other. Pullets are kept a different number of days from roosters," so said our new friend.
Because we were interested, he told us of a peculiar situation he'd had with one new batch of chicks. They wouldn't drink water. The "why not" was a mystery. Three-day-olds aren't much more than a cotton-ball with feet and a beak, they need hydration.
Puzzled, he held one chick at the water-er tapping it's head so it's beak touched the water. The other 89,999 waited for the verdict. Our friend couldn't give up, too much was at stake. After several minutes, whatever blocked the idea dissolved, and the chick took a drink. Instantly, the message transmitted to the rest, and they all took a drink, thank goodness.
Gracious hosts, they fed us well in the mornings - the King's Breakfast: meat, eggs, bread fried and toast, grilled tomatoes, cheeses, and tea; whatever we wanted. Then we took day trips, but that's another story. In the evening they invited us for brandy and a visit. Their home was new-built to look like the old black and whites. Timbers for their blacks were more than 250 years old and came from an old ship. That's recycling.
We never thought of any consequences for visiting the chicken operation, but back in the States, Customs intended confiscating our shoes until we convinced them we wouldn't be on a farm at home.
Minnie says I can't say we stayed at "the chicken ranch," but what would you call a farm with 90,000 chickens?
copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series
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